Not long after Carter Horton hung up the phone, the piercing wail of police sirens echoed in the distance.
Three NYPD patrol cars and two black vans marked "OCME"—for the Office of Chief Medical Examiner—were parked precisely at the accident scene.
The blinding red and blue lights bathed the street in an eerie, theatrical glow.
"Back off! Everyone, back off!"
A tall officer stepped out of the lead car, his voice sharp and commanding.
His gaze swept the scene, and he immediately ordered his colleagues to establish a perimeter. The forensic team moved with practiced efficiency.
A forensic pathologist—gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, thinning hair neatly combed—knelt beside the body, his latex gloves already smeared with blood.
"A typical high-speed impact injury," he said, turning to his intern. "Judging from the angle, the vehicle was traveling at least sixty miles per hour."
He pointed gently to the deep laceration across the corpse's waist.
"Instant death… a stroke of luck amidst misfortune."
The intern nodded silently and unfurled a body bag with practiced ease.
As they lifted the body, a low, scraping sound made several onlookers flinch and look away.
"Damn it—what the hell happened here?" a young officer muttered under his breath.
The senior pathologist shot him a withering glare.
"Be professional, rookie. This is a crime scene. Everyone has a job to do. Save your emotions for church."
Meanwhile, the NYPD's evidence team meticulously measured the skid marks.
"The braking distance is too short," a detective noted, crouching beside the faint tire tracks.
His partner, inspecting the convertible nearby, called back:
"The brakes are functional. It's just that the speed was too high. At sixty miles per hour, there was no time to react."
After processing the scene, Carter Horton and Terri Chaney were escorted into separate patrol cars.
Watching this, Alex suddenly bolted toward the curb, waving frantically at a passing taxi.
"No! I have to go to the station with them!"
"Wait!"
Damian grabbed his arm. "What can you even do there?"
"It's better than standing here doing nothing!" Alex's eyes were bloodshot. "Two people are already dead! I can't just… Even if I just watch, that's something!"
As the taxi sped off, Peter Parker approached Damian, his voice laced with confusion.
"To be honest, I don't get it… Why is Alex so wracked with guilt? Why is Carter terrified? And what did you mean earlier—about 'death' and 'the next target'?"
Damian fell silent for a long moment, then sighed.
"Well… it's a long story."
He pulled Peter aside to a quieter spot and recounted everything: the survivors of Flight 180, Death's design, Alex's premonition, the rules of the pattern—and the invisible force hunting them one by one.
Peter listened in stunned silence. To Damian's surprise, he didn't question the tale's plausibility.
"So… Death really does exist," Peter murmured. Then, with sudden seriousness: "Do you think I should buy a statue of Jesus… or a portrait?"
Damian gave him a deadpan look. "Buy the portrait."
"Why? What's the difference?"
"Because the portrait only needs one nail."
Peter pressed a hand to his forehead, his expression a mix of exasperation and reluctant awe. "If you're this annoying, aren't you scared you'll end up in hell?"
Damian shrugged. "I'm not afraid. I don't believe in Jesus. I believe in Ma Lie and Confucius."
Peter frowned. "Do you think Confucius was better than Jesus?"
Damian shook his head firmly. "No. I think Jesus is far more impressive."
"Then why don't you—"
"Because Jesus has two Confuciuses in his hands… and a Zhuangzi behind him."
"Don't think I can't understand Chinese! You bastard!"
---
Meanwhile, en route to the precinct
Even inside the patrol car, Carter Horton's nerves remained taut as a snapped wire.
His fingers dug into the seat edge until his knuckles turned bone-white.
His eyes darted across every detail outside: passing trucks, traffic lights, even windblown leaves.
The slightest sound—a rustle, a creak—sent a jolt through him. His breath came in ragged gasps, as if he'd just sprinted a mile.
The officer driving glanced at him in the rearview mirror.
"Relax, kid. You're not even eighteen, and it was a genuine emergency. The judge'll go easy—probably just community service."
Carter let out a bitter laugh. "You don't understand, Officer. That's not what I'm afraid of…"
Before he could finish, an unnatural wind howled down the street—sudden, icy, and thick with dust.
Trash swirled into miniature whirlwinds. A massive metal billboard groaned overhead, its rusted frame trembling.
Crunch… crunch…
One by one, its corroded bolts sheared off.
The billboard lurched, tilted—then tore free.
BOOM!
The two-ton slab of metal plummeted from ten meters up, casting a shadow over the patrol car like a death sentence.
"Everyone in road maintenance deserves to die!" the officer yelled, slamming the brakes and wrenching the wheel.
SQUEAL—SCREECH—
Tires smoked as the car fishtailed wildly.
Carter was thrown against the door, watching helplessly as the billboard scraped the rear bumper and slammed into the asphalt.
CRASH!
The impact shook the street. Shards of asphalt exploded upward, cratering the road.
Dozens of jagged metal fragments shattered the back window and peppered the rear seat.
"It's okay… we made it!" the officer panted, wrestling the car to a stop.
Carter gasped for air, heart hammering—he'd survived.
But then—
A delivery truck hauling steel rebar swerved violently to avoid the debris.
Too fast. Too late.
BAM!
The cab crumpled like paper. The windshield detonated into a million glittering shards.
The driver's body was impaled by twisted metal; blood bloomed across the glass.
Worse still—the impact snapped every chain and strap securing the load.
WHOOSH—WHOOSH—WHOOSH!
A storm of six-meter steel rods erupted from the truck bed, transformed by momentum into lethal spears hurtling toward the patrol car—
Visit patreon.com/ShiroTL to gain access to 40+ chapters